


On Holiday

by illwick



Series: Unwind [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Biting, Bondage, Bossy!Sherlock, Bottom!Sherlock, Dirty Talk, Dog Tags, Dom!John, Edgeplay, Exhibitionism, Fluff and Angst, Forced Orgasm, Hair-pulling, Ice Play, Kink Negotiation, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Mutual Masturbation, Nipple Play, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Overstimulation, Possessive Behavior, Possessive John, Power Exchange, Praise Kink, Prostate Massage, Rimming, Rough Sex, Safe Sane and Consensual, Sensation Play, Sensory Deprivation, Shower Sex, Voyeurism, greedy!Sherlock, sub!Sherlock, top!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-06 01:31:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11025774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illwick/pseuds/illwick
Summary: What's the cure for a bit of a dry spell?  A tryst in a hotel suite may be just what the doctor ordered.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work makes references to events from both my "In Between" series and from my "Unwind" series, but it's not essential to have read them for this to make sense. I mean, it's a bunch of kinky sex in a hotel suite. Not a whole lot of explanation needed, I'd say...

He really shouldn't complain.

He knows that.

After all, there are few places in this world Sherlock Holmes would rather be than on his back in his bedroom in 221B Baker Street as one Dr. John Hamish Watson works his cock over with his expert mouth.

And _Christ,_ John is good at this. For someone who'd not performed fellatio until a relatively late stage in life, John had proved to be a quick learner and a more than enthusiastic provider. Especially now that their relationship is more established (as opposed to the way it had been back before Sherlock fell, infused with confusing, secretive, sporadic encounters), John has proved himself beyond satisfactory in his oral ministrations.

And yet.

 _And yet._ It's been five weeks since they've had _proper_ sex.

 _Five bloody weeks._

It's not John's fault. It's not anyone's fault, really, except maybe Rosie's, and Sherlock has learned from experience that it's perhaps a bit _not good_ to blame a toddler for monopolizing John's attentions, especially when she _is_ his daughter. That would be selfish of him.

But Sherlock's all but gagging for it.

Rosie's currently in the midst of a rough patch in her sleeping habits, going from sleeping through the night to waking up wailing two or three times between the hours of 1 and 5 in the morning. John insists it's just a phase--a growth spurt, most likely; she's more than willing to fall back asleep as soon as she's had a bottle-- and Sherlock's inclined to believe him, truly he is. But in Rosie's current state, John is absolutely beside himself with exhaustion, and _adamant_ that he and Sherlock _not make too much noise lest they wake her._

Which brings them to this.

And it's not like they haven't been having sexual encounters of any kind. On the nights when he doesn't fall asleep snoring on the sofa directly after dinner, John is very diplomatic in giving Sherlock attention. They've had lovely mutual wanks on the sofa, trading kisses and heated gazes as they tune out the television droning in the background. They've had very enjoyable (if perfunctory) sessions of intercrural sex in the shower in the few spare minutes during John's morning routine before he heads off to work. And on the weekends, if by some miracle he's not asleep by 9PM, John is more than willing to exchange enthusiastic blowjobs in the bedroom (with the door shut and the baby monitor on) before collapsing exhaustedly onto his side of the bed to try and catch a few hours' rest before Rosie's wailing begins.

It should be enough.

It really should.

But Sherlock needs more.

He needs to be fucked. He needs to feel John inside him, claiming him, making him shout and beg and scream. He needs to do it in the sitting room, over the kitchen table, against the wall in the hallway, on the stairs leading up to the nursery, all full of heat and desperation. He needs bruised knees and rugburned palms and that pleasantly persistent ache that only a good, proper rodgering can provide. That only John Watson can give to him.

Sherlock moans and arches just thinking about it, pushing himself deeper into John's warm, wet mouth. John pulls away immediately. "Shhhh. Sherlock, she's only just drifted off. You've got to keep it down, _please."_

Sherlock nods sheepishly and lets out a huff as John lowers his lips to tease his cockhead, flicking his tongue over the leaking slit. Sherlock scrunches his eyes shut and wills himself to stay silent. 

Before too long, John is taking him deep, alternating long, firm suction with laves of his tongue up the underside of his length. It's almost unimaginably erotic, watching John's lips stretched around him like this, the vision of his clever tongue against Sherlock's flushed hardness making Sherlock feel hot and tight all over.

Sherlock is breathing heavily, and he finally can't hold back any longer. He reaches down to thread his fingers through John's hair, and John lets out a tiny hum of affirmation and proceeds to take Sherlock as deep as he can, bobbing his head in a steady, consistent motion.

Sherlock's fingers tighten and he sucks in a breath, spreading his legs further. Time was he'd warn John, but they're past all that now. They've reached a mutual understanding, and John is taking Sherlock to the edge without hesitation.

Sherlock comes, hissing through his teeth as the waves of ecstasy wash over him. He pumps himself into John's mouth and John continues to suck him in firm, unwavering pulls until he finally feels his cock twitch with oversensitivity.

John pulls off and presses a kiss to Sherlock's inner thigh, then turns his head to rest his cheek there. Sherlock can see his arm begin to move in quick, efficient strokes, and John sucks in a breath and closes his eyes. He's breathing heavily, emitting light whimpers in the back of his throat, his hair falling across his sweat-soaked forehead in a way that makes Sherlock feel warm and affectionate inside. God, John is beautiful like this.

Sherlock cards his fingers through John's hair as John continues to work himself over. It's only another moment before he comes, twisting his head to sink his teeth lightly into the soft flesh of Sherlock's inner thigh as he does so, ragged gasps giving way to long, shuddering breaths as he comes back down.

Finally, everything is still. John sits up and nonchalantly wipes off his hand with a few tissues from the box they keep next to the bed, then collapses onto his pillow and closes his eyes.

"Are you asleep?" Sherlock's not tired in the least.

"Give me 20 seconds and I will be." John doesn't open his eyes. "You alright?"

"Yes, fine. Just not tired. I'm going to go work on my experiment for a bit."

"Mmmm."

"Goodnight, John."

"Mmm."

Sherlock rises and wraps himself in his dressing gown, then pads down the hallway to the sitting room. His laptop is perched on the table there and he flips it open. But instead of returning to the message boards about a new species of mold spore that had begun cropping up in the West Indies, he instead types in a few key search words:

 _Weekend holiday retreats UK_

It's time he took matters into his own hands.

Four days later, John staggers in from his shift at the surgery looking predictably haggard. Sherlock's just putting the finishing touches on the ratatouille he's spent all afternoon cooking, and John's expression shifts from exhausted to suspicious as he eyes the scene before him.

"You... made dinner? Without my asking?"

"I did. No cases on, figured I'd make myself useful."

"I. Um, wow, Sherlock, that's quite... unlike you?"

"John, I find that offensive. You know that I'm more than willing to help out on mundane domestic chores provided I haven't got any pressing cases or experiments on."

John looks unconvinced. "True, but your definition of _pressing_ is often a bit lax. Last time I asked you to clean the loo, you insisted you were doing _pressing_ research on internet memes."

"It's important to be up on youth culture, John. One never knows when it may help crack a case."

"Obviously. Wrong of me to question. But would you also mind telling me why Rosie's portable crib is out, and her diaper bag is all packed up? You do know we can't ship her off to Eton yet, right?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes and adds a dash more pepper to the stew. "I'm well aware, John. And don't be dense, she'll go to Wycombe Abbey."

"Okay, we'll save that conversation for another day. But seriously, why are all her things packed up?"

"Because Mummy's coming by to get her at 8 o'clock sharp tomorrow morning. And we're catching the 10 o'clock train to Brighton."

"Case?"

"No."

"Oh. _Oh._ Sherlock... are you taking me on a surprise mini-break?"

"Maybe."

John breaks into a grin and strides across the kitchen to wrap his arms around Sherlock's waist.

"Why, Sherlock Holmes, that is perhaps the most romantic thing you've ever done."

"I took you on a mini-break once before. To Cornwall."

"Sherlock, there was a murdered aristocrat involved in that one."

"Yes, which I'd argue made it all the more romantic, but perhaps that's just me."

John cuffs him lightly and makes his way to the sitting room to pick up Rosie from her playpen.

"Be that as it may, Sherlock... thank you."

Sherlock smiles to himself and rummages for two bowls to serve up the stew. He reckons he may just get the hang of this _romance_ thing, yet.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Romance" might not be quite as simple as it seemed.

The trip to Brighton is uneventful. John sleeps on the train, which normally would have annoyed Sherlock to no end, but Rosie had been up three times the previous night, and John's relief upon handing her over to Sherlock's mother that morning had been all but palpable. Sherlock had warned his mother about Rosie's current sleeping patterns, but she'd insisted that it was 'No bother at all,' (a position, Sherlock hypothesized, that would undoubtedly change by the end of the weekend). But for now, he was content to take her up on her hospitality--especially if it meant the possibility of having John all to himself, well-rested and hopefully horny. (And yes, he'd momentarily contemplating bringing a few tabs of a little something to up John's libido if he wasn't up to the challenge, but had quickly reminded himself that non-consensual medicating of one's significant other fell firmly into the "not good" category and immediately dismissed the thought, thank you very much for asking.)

Sherlock wakes John when they're a few minutes out from their arrival at the station to give him time to get his bearings. John looks adorably sleep-mussed, but his eyes seem brighter and his smile easier after even such a short respite, and Sherlock again mentally congratulates himself on his thoughtful decision to plan this mini-break for John. It will surely do him a world of good.

Sherlock had used one of his local connections to book them a room at one of the premiere seaside hotels in town. He could practically see the gears turning in John's head as they made their way through the sumptuous lobby, but his concerns about the finances seemed immediately alleviated as soon as they were handed their keys to the suite with a cordial, "Compliments of the house," so Sherlock's not left with any explaining to do. What's more, he even remembers to offer to carry John's luggage to the lift (John declines, but with an amused expression that Sherlock deduces means he's quite touched by the gesture).

John issues an audible gasp when they enter their room. Three panels of floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the beach and the pier, complete with an old-fashioned brass telescope (oh, Sherlock will _surely_ have fun deducing the beachgoers with that later). The bed is enormous and well-appointed, and Sherlock's brain goes into overdrive imagining all the _lovely_ scenarios of the things they'll do there. There's a bottle of wine (French, dry, white, vineyard in the Loire) chilling beside the settee, and a fresh vase of lilies ( _lilium candidum,_ imported from a London greenhouse, blooms open for 4--no, 5 hours) on the bedside table. It is, quite frankly, perfect.

John drops his bag on the floor and turns to Sherlock. "Sherlock, this is... really lovely."

Sherlock grins. "I'm glad you like it." He steps forward and pulls John in to him and then they're kissing, slow and deep, unhurried and sensual, in a way they haven't in so damn long. But Sherlock feels like he's about to crawl out of his skin with desire. He wonders if John would be open to a quickie--just to take the edge off-- and he reaches up and begins to undo the buttons of John's shirt.

John steps away and places his palm on Sherlock's chest and smiles up at him in that adoring, placating, maddening way that he does. "I should shower. I haven't since last night, I'm afraid I reek of spit-up and train station coffee."

"I'll join you." Sherlock can be amenable. He can be flexible. So long as whatever they're doing involves putting John's cock inside him.

They strip down and make their way to the bathroom, which is as lavishly appointed as the rest of the room. The shower itself looks to be about the size of their kitchen back home, and Sherlock's mind provides a thousand flickering scenarios of ways to put it to good use.

But he can be calm. He can show restraint. He can be romantic. For John.

And God, does John take advantage. He presses Sherlock up against the wall of the shower, boxing him in with his strong, sturdy body, and kisses him senseless, all while running his hands over Sherlock's tingling skin. The steaming water magnifies every sensation by ten, and it's not long before Sherlock is panting, head thrown back against the tile of the wall, moaning John's name over and over as John sucks at the delicious spot on his neck just below his ear that makes him feel like he's falling all to pieces. He's grinding up against John but he wants _more,_ needs _more,_ and he adjusts his weight so that he can wrap his left leg up around John to pull him _closer_ and give him _more._

John's right hand moves over Sherlock's thigh where it's wrapped around his waist, then back to his buttocks, and then finally, _finally,_ John is pressing a digit against Sherlock's entrance. Sherlock keens and arches and gasps in the steamy air, fighting for breath. It's all he can do to keep himself upright, incentivizing himself with the promise of all that John's fingers are sure to do to him.

"Mmmmm." John hums contentedly into Sherlock's neck and then licks one of the rivulets of water running down it, and simultaneous presses his finger inside.

It's exquisite.

Sometimes it strikes Sherlock just how much John has changed the way he relates to his transport. The fact that he went so many years without this level of intimacy seems completely foreign to him; he now wants it, _craves_ it, with a feral persistence that permeates every cell in his body. His desire to be penetrated and possessed, his endless want to be wanted and claimed, his absolute need to lose control--none of that had registered anywhere on his radar until John. And now here he was, on a romantic mini-break in Brighton, begging John Watson to fuck him as he ruts helplessly against the slippery skin of his stomach, voice high and needy and his breath barely gasps. His former self would never recognise him.

John has two fingers inside him now, using the considerable strength of his arm to keep Sherlock's leg hoisted around his waist. His other hand snakes between them to cradle Sherlock's balls, fondling them in tandem with the thrusting of the fingers of his other hand, and Sherlock lets out a ragged shout.

"Yes, that's it, let me hear you. God, Sherlock, you sound incredible."

Sherlock doesn't hold back. Christ, it's been _ages_ since he's been allowed to make noise, to let John know exactly how he makes him feel. He lets himself go.

All too quickly, it's nearly too much.

"John, please, now. Fuck me now. Can't wait anymore."

"Right, okay--is there any soap or anything in here? I've--"

Sherlock reaches blindly out past the shower curtain to where he'd placed a tube of lube on the sink when John wasn't looking. He thrusts it wildly into John's hand.

"My, my, being rather presumptuous, were we?"

"Shut up and fuck me, Watson. You've kept me waiting long enough."

"On it, your majesty," John snarks, and spins Sherlock to face the wall. Sherlock leans forward and braces himself on his forearms, presenting his arse as enticingly as possible.

And then John is pressing into him with three slick fingers, scissoring and twisting and every nerve ending is lit up with sparks and Sherlock has never, ever known a hunger like this.

But John is taking too damn long. Sherlock throws a dirty look back over his shoulder. "Would you be quite quick about it? I've waited five weeks for this."

"Exactly, Sherlock. We haven't done this in five weeks. You need some proper prep right now. You're really tight."

"Well, if I'm tight, it's just because you've got me wound up like a bloody teenager. For God's sake, get on with it!"

"Like hell I will. You are NOT going to rush me on my mini-break." John's voice is cold as steel. Sherlock heaves and exasperated sigh and turns back to rest his head against his forearms, resigned to letting John have his way.

And he does, very thoroughly, for another five minutes. But somewhere midway through his prep Sherlock forgets to be exasperated and impatient and instead is reduced to desperate and needy and the next thing he knows he's sinking his teeth into his own forearm to keep from screaming and is instead issuing long, low moans as John expertly massages his prostate.

After what's certainly an eternity, he feels the urgent press of John's cockhead against his entrance. John's fingers disappear and then reappear on Sherlock's hip, holding him firmly in place as John guides himself effortlessly inside. He bottoms out in one strong stroke.

They're both issuing short, choked-off sounds, a mingling of surprise and pleasure. Sherlock had forgotten just how good this was. How good this could be.

"Fuck." The word seems to emerge from the deepest recesses of Sherlock's brain. "Oh, _fuck."_ Sherlock twists his head to the side to look back at John, who is staring down at his arse with rapt attention.

" _Fuck_ is right. _Christ,_ Sherlock, you're so goddamn tight, you're so..."

"Yes, John, fuck, just like that, go on now, take me, don't hold back."

And John _moves._ He moves with expert precision, with an animalistic grace, with the practiced passion of a generous lover denied too long. One of his hands travels from where it was resting on Sherlock's hip up to his shoulder, then his grip tightens, and he locks Sherlock into place. Sherlock arches his back and keens.

"Yes. Yes, that's it, Sherlock, just like that, God, you're so good, you're so tight, so perfect for me."

"Nnnnngh." Sherlock moans, but the sound is muffled from where he's buried his head against is forearms, both to shelter himself from overstimulation and, perhaps more practically, to prevent his head from being unceremoniously slammed into the wall by John's vigorous thrusts.

"Oh, God. Are you close? Please tell me you're close."

Sherlock answers with a wail.

"Touch yourself. Want to feel you come for me. Want to feel you-- _oh--_ come on my cock."

It doesn't occur to Sherlock to hesitate. He pries his head up from where it was resting on his forearms and adjusts himself so that he's braced on just one arm. With his other hand, he grips his aching cock and begins to stroke.

He comes instantly. Given a few more minutes of John's attentions he's fairly certain he could have come untouched, but that seems entirely beside the point. As it stands, he works himself over vigorously, focusing on the way the intense contractions cause him to constrict around John's cock, which is continuing to plunder him with undiminished enthusiasm.

" _Yes,_ oh, God yes, amazing, so good for me, coming just for me, Sherlock, so good..."

Sherlock rides out the final waves of his orgasm and feels himself relax. He brings his forearm back to the wall to provide additional leverage, and begins to push himself back on John's cock in palpating motions, meeting him thrust for thrust.

John is babbling now, a frantic, filthy diatribe riddled with obscene praise that makes Sherlock's ears burn and face flush. John knows the effect his praise has on Sherlock, and Sherlock delights in his affection.

And then John is simply shouting and his grip on Sherlock becomes just this side of painful, and with a few final, harsh thrusts, he comes.

And _oh,_ how Sherlock loves this part. The feeling of being filled with _John,_ of being connected with him in a way no one else was, the sensation of his organic matter entering Sherlock and becoming _part_ of him, in a way no one else ever had. It's a joy deeper than joy, a privilege beyond privilege, a closeness above close. It's transcendent.

John all but collapses against Sherlock's back, breathing wetly against his shoulder.

It's a solid minute before either of them moves. John withdraws his cock and pulls himself upright, but Sherlock knows better than to move just yet.

And true to habit, John parts his cheeks to inspect him. In the beginning John always insisted it was "to check for tearing," which, Sherlock supposes, he still _technically_ does, but they've long since given up the facade that this is for medical purposes. John likes to see what he's done to Sherlock. And Sherlock likes to show him.

John runs a finger around Sherlock's rim experimentally, then presses inside briefly, teasing him gently, observing the way his come looks glistening at Sherlock's entrance. Sherlock breathes deeply and relaxes under John's watchful gaze until at last, John issues a satisfied hum and steps away, back under the spray of the shower.

Sherlock rights himself and turns around, then shuffles forward on wobbly legs to join him under the stream. John greets him with a kiss.

"Mmmm. That was wonderful, Sherlock. Thank you."

"Really, John, the pleasure was all mine. Well, partially mine. I suppose about half of the gross net pleasure was technically yours, assuming we split it evenly."

John laughs and kisses him again, fond and light, and Sherlock wraps his arms around him. 

They wash themselves off at an unhurried pace (a true luxury, considering the hot water at Baker Street was unreliable at best) and return to the bedroom with towels wrapped around their waists. John makes his way to his suitcase and pulls out a book; _The Best of Brighton._

"So, lucky turn-up, I borrowed this from one of the other doctors at the surgery who came here with her family last summer. I haven't had a lot of time to go through it yet, but there are some nice highlights in here. There's the Pier, obviously, and the Royal Pavilion. If you're hungry, there's a few fish and chips places that looked good. There's a whiskey distillery, too, that might be nice... oh, and I've marked down this place called Snooper's Paradise that sells bizarre antique goods, seemed right up your alley.... what?"

Sherlock is staring at John, completely flummoxed. John wanted to... _go out?_ And _do things?_ Sherlock had rather just assumed they'd spend the weekend in bed, shagging each other senseless and making up for lost time. But instead, it appears that John has completely missed this memo.

He decides not to parse his words. No need to be coy about things, he'd just tell John what he wanted. After all, John was all about _communication,_ as he kept insisting to Sherlock.

"I rather thought we'd just stay in."

"Stay... in?"

"Yes, stay in and shag, do I need to spell it out for you? You've basically ignored me for five weeks straight, so I figured this would be a good opportunity to make up for it."

"You... you brought me here just so that we could _shag?"_

"Well, yes, isn't that what mini-breaks are for?"

"The shagging might be part of it, Sherlock, but it's also about spending quality time with the people you care about and trying new and interesting things."

"I can guarantee you that if we spend the weekend in bed, it will be quality time in which we try out new and interesting things."

But there's a flush rising in John's cheeks that has nothing to do with their recent steamy encounter. He's _angry,_ Sherlock realises, though for the life of him, he can't figure out why.

"So you weren't feeling emotionally neglected when you decided to plan this mini-break? You didn't miss spending time with me these past few weeks? You were just horny?"

"I... well, yes. I mean, John, I've grown accustomed to a certain level of sexual satisfaction--"

"So you brought me all the way to bloody BRIGHTON to use me as your HUMAN DILDO for the weekend?" John's voice is rising, and Sherlock is suddenly grasping to diffuse the situation.

"No! No, John, it wasn't like that. I just... missed you." He lowers his eyes coyly and pouts his lips, parting them slightly, just the way he knows John likes.

John doesn't fall for it, not even for a second. "Oh, fuck off, you missed my cock. Here I thought you were feeling neglected and wanted some quality time just the two of us, and as it turns out you were just being the same greedy, self-centred prick you always are." John is pulling clothes out of his suitcase and putting them on faster than Sherlock can process. He's still unable to wrap is brain around how this situation spiraled out of control so quickly.

"John, please. I just..."

"You just _what,_ Sherlock? You don't always get to be the centre of the universe, you know. I have needs, too. Desires. Like sleep, and a decent meal, and maybe a fucking peaceful afternoon strolling by the seaside without everyone in my fucking life making demands of me. But no. You only want me here so that you can get what _you want._ Are you really such an insatiable slag that you've got to quarantine me for your own personal use after just a few weeks without? Is that it?"

 _Slag._

The word hits Sherlock like a bucket of ice water. He's been called that word before, loads of times--first in Uni, on his knees with Seb's hands twisted in his hair as he used his mouth for his pleasure, laughing when Sherlock got hard from it. And by some of the men who came in the years after, in dark alleys and drug dens and in the back offices of chambers of power. Sherlock, always on his knees, trembling and confused by his body's demands, the word washing over him like molten tar, sticky and coated in feathers.

"What? No witty comeback? No zingy reply? Have I finally rendered the great Sherlock Holmes speechless?"

Sherlock opens his mouth, but he's _lost,_ drifting somewhere between the present and a past that suddenly doesn't feel so far away.

"Fine. I'm going out. Maybe I'll see you around." And with that, John, now fully dressed, turns on his heel, walks out the door, and slams it behind him.

Sherlock sinks to the ground in the middle of the bedroom. He pulls his knees up to his chest. The towel that had been slung around his hips falls open, leaving him naked and exposed, but he can't bring himself to care. He's vulnerable enough already.

It takes him a while to notice he's crying. He's not sobbing, nothing as embarrassing or dramatic as that, but his eyelashes are wet and there are streaks down his cheeks and he can't really draw any other conclusion.

Why did everything have to be so fucking _confusing?_

Sherlock is trying to get better at communication. John has consistently insisted upon it. And Sherlock is trying, he really is. But at times like this, it all just goes so completely wrong.

 _...But really, who the fuck did Sherlock Holmes think he is? He's a high-functioning sociopath, yet he's parading about with John and Rosie like he's some sort of upright family man, a valuable contributor to society, a partaker in social structure and follower of norms and mores. But he doesn't have a fucking clue how to do any of this. Never did. John was a fucking moron, letting him anywhere near his daughter, Sherlock didn't deserve her, he didn't deserve either of them._

Sherlock blinks back another wave of tears and shakes his head, rising to his feet.

No, he was better than this. He was working _every damn day_ to be worthy of John and Rosie. And today was going to be no exception. He could be better. He owed it to Mary. He owed it to them all.

He absentmindedly pulls on the first pair of trousers his hand touches and pairs them with a shirt, not even bothering to see if they match. He dons his socks and shoes in record time, slaps some product in his hair (the sea air wasn't doing his curls any favours, and he didn't want to be wandering the streets of a strange city looking like more of a raving lunatic than he already was), and bolts out the door.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's the best way to make up?

John isn't hard to find. He's sitting on a bench on the beach, overlooking the sea, the sun lighting up his golden-grey hair like a halo. ( _'Like a halo?' God, sentiment was tedious.)_ Sherlock doesn't approach him at first. He watches from the boardwalk, observing him, waiting until the tension in his shoulders has dissipated a bit, until his head goes from bowed and defeated to raised and alert. Only then does Sherlock make his way across the sand to join him.

He sits on the far end of the bench. John doesn't look over at him. Sherlock takes a deep breath.

But John interrupts him before he's gotten a word out. "I'm sorry."

Sherlock is completely blindsided. "I... you... what?" Sherlock was fairly certain that he was supposed to be the one apologizing.

"I'm sorry." John still doesn't look at him, his gaze fixed determinedly out to sea. His eyeline follows a gull as it dips and dives.

"I'm... I'm confused." Sherlock is honest. He officially has no bloody idea what's going on.

John takes a slow, deep breath. "As you may have noticed... or, hell, you may not have noticed, but consider this your notice... I've been stretched pretty thin as of late. And today I just... snapped. And I took it all out on you, and that was wrong of me. I'm sorry."

"That's... alright."

"No, it's not, really." John lets out a dark chuckle. "You can be a right prat sometimes, but lately you've been... well, better. So much better. You've been more thoughtful towards me, kinder, and you've been a godsend with the way you help me take care of Rosie, I never could do this without you."

"Oh." Sherlock is slightly relieved, knowing that he's at least made some progress.

"It's just... between work, and Rosie, and you, and _us,_ I've just been a bit overwhelmed. I mean, I've had to skip out on working the last two cases with you because I was dead on my feet. And I hated missing out on that, Sherlock. I really did."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Please, John. As I told you, they were 6's at best. Your efforts were not required."

John shrugs. "Be that as it may... working cases with you is one of the best things in my life. I don't want to lose that."

Sherlock feels a glow of satisfaction in his chest to hear John say so. While it's true that John's efforts had not been required on his last two cases, he'd begun to wonder if John skipping out was going to become a habit.

Sherlock drags his toe through the sand, tracing a semicircle in front of him. He keeps his gaze fixed on it. "You could... I mean, you could quit your job, John. Like I told you before... we don't need the money." Sherlock hates to bring it up again, but it's the truth.

The week after John and Rosie had moved into Baker Street, Sherlock had gone to make a standard withdrawal at the ATM and noticed a sudden infusion of cash into his checking account. _Mycroft,_ he assumed, and had pulled out his mobile to send him a vitriolic text about _minding his own damn business._

But... There had been a leak in the corner of Rosie's nursery, and though Mrs. Hudson had had it repaired immediately, Rosie's rocking chair had suffered considerable damage. This cash would pay for that, and the newer, bigger pram that John had mention she'd soon need.

So Sherlock had said nothing. 

The next month, there was another deposit, of the same amount. And while Sherlock didn't _want_ to take the money, he hadn't had a case in three weeks, and John had been in the midst of applying for a new position at surgeries closer to their flat. Diapers were expensive, and so was formula, and so was baby food, and Rosie had outgrown nearly all of her clothing and would need new shoes within the month. So Sherlock had said nothing.

And for some reason, taking money from Mycroft doesn't bother him anymore. It was family money, after all--legally, it was half his, he'd just always turned his nose up at it before. But now, it allows Sherlock to provide for John and Rosie, and that was of course the most important thing in the world. He's willing to let bygones be bygones-- _Just this once._

So long as Mycroft never brings it up, and keeps his nose out of their bloody business.

John sighs. "I appreciate it, Sherlock, really, I do. But you know having a my own income is important to me. I need that sense of personal autonomy, and I need to have a purpose and a life of my own, out side of... our cases." He says 'our cases,' but Sherlock knows what he really means: _'Outside of you.'_

 _Personal autonomy._ After John moved back in, he'd stressed how important this was for them both. Which is why he insisted on continuing to work at the surgery, even though it seemed to be killing him. It was a desperate act of self-preservation.

Sherlock purses his lips and squints into the sunshine reflecting off the water, keeping his eyes on the horizon. "You could ask the surgery to let you go down to part-time. I've heard loads of people with children do that. After all, you've got a young daughter, a lucrative side gig, and a stone-cold sociopath of a roommate who you've somehow managed to transform into a cock-hungry slag. You've got a lot on your plate."

John laughs. And not just a chuckle, but a real laugh, the kind where he throws back his head and the corners of his eyes wrinkle up, and he scrunches his nose in that way that makes Sherlock want to snog him senseless.

He finally turns his head to look at Sherlock, and Sherlock meets his eyes.

"You know, you may be right. If I could cut back to only 3 days a week, I'd still be bringing in an income, but I'd have a lot more time and flexibility for helping out with cases. And satisfying your carnal needs, as I know that's really all you're in this for."

Sherlock scoffs. "Don't sell yourself short. As I've said before, your help on cases is invaluable. Though your carnal services are much appreciated as well."

John grins. "Thank you. And Sherlock... I really am sorry. About what I said before. I know you're trying. And the name that I called you... it was a horrible thing to say. You should never be ashamed of what your body wants, not ever, and it was so, so wrong of me to say that."

Sherlock nods. "I appreciate that. And... for what it's worth, I'm sorry I was a bit presumptuous about our activities this weekend."

"Apology accepted."

They sit in silence for a while, listening to the sound of the waves and the cry of the gulls. Finally, John rises to his feet, and extends a hand to Sherlock. "Hungry?"

"Starving."

The rest of the day is pleasant enough. Well, pleasant for John, and tolerable for Sherlock. They grab some (fairly decent) fish and chips and pass the afternoon at the Snooper's market John had suggested, which is considerably more fascinating than Sherlock had anticipated. By the time the market's closing the sunlight is nearly gone, and they make their way back to the hotel for dinner. The restaurant is adequate (if overpriced, and selling black market snapper, but Sherlock doesn't comment), and then indulge in a nighttime stroll along the pier, the salty air filling their lungs and making their eyes water. They return to their hotel room sun-soaked, full, and content.

Sherlock makes his way to his suitcase as soon as they walk in the door and rummages about for his pajamas, expecting John to follow suit. But instead, he feels John's strong arms wrap around him from behind, and a gentle kiss pressed against his neck.

"Mmmm. What's this? Thought we weren't wasting the whole holiday shagging?"

"Unfortunately for you, all this briney sea air has got your human dildo all hot and bothered. There's a scientific correlation there, I'm sure."

Sherlock chuckles and John continues to press soft, slow kisses across the back of his neck. His hands make their way to the neck of Sherlock's shirt, and he slowly begins to undo his buttons.

Sherlock sighs and closes his eyes. Yes. Finally. _This._

They take their time. That's the benefit of a mini-break shag, Sherlock supposes, as he sucks John's cock down his throat and revels in the way John tips his head back as he moans with delight. This is more foreplay than they've had time for in ages, and really, it's quite magnificent.

John finally pulls Sherlock off his cock with a reluctant murmur of "Too close," then flips Sherlock onto his back to return the favour. The bed is, as Sherlock predicted, luxuriously soft, the sheets high thread count and _perfect_ for wringing in his hands as John works him over. All too soon he's pushing John away, gasping and willing himself back from the brink. 

John sits up. He's gorgeously naked and gloriously flushed, his hair sticking in odd directions and his pupils blown wide.

"What do you want next?"

"It's your mini-break, John. I'll take you any way you'll have me."

John grins, a lascivious smile, and wracks his eyes down Sherlock's prone form. "How are you feeling since the shower? Too sore, or can we go again?"

"John, when I said 'Any way you'll have me,' did I stutter?"

"Right you are. Hold that thought." John hops up from the bed and returns from the bathroom holding the tube of lube. He coats two of his fingers and climbs onto the bed on his knees. Sherlock spreads his legs accommodatingly, grabbing behind his thighs to hold himself open. John's pupils dilate impossibly further.

He presses into Sherlock with two fingers straight away. Sherlock hisses a sharp intake of breath through his teeth, but the stretch isn't bad; he's still a bit open from their earlier encounter, and as John begins to move his fingers, it's clear that his passage is still fairly well-lubricated. John licks his lips and begins to scissor his fingers, using his free hand to press back on Sherlock's knee, opening his legs even wider. Sherlock arches and moans.

It's barely been a minute before John's withdrawing his fingers and adding more lube, then pressing back in with three. Sherlock feels open and ready; there's no pain, barely a burn; John had done a good job prepping him earlier, and the effects have clearly lasted.

"John, I'm ready. You can go ahead whenever you like."

John withdraws his fingers and leans up to hover over Sherlock, then kisses him deeply, passionately. Sherlock moans again as John's tongue presses into his mouth, and his hardened cock pulses against his stomach. It doesn't seem biologically possible to want something as much as he wants John Watson inside of him.

But then John's pulling away slightly and meeting Sherlock's eyes with a heated gaze. "If you're up for it, I thought we could try something new."

"Oh. Alright. Anything."

John grins, then flops down next to Sherlock on his back. "I was thinking you could, um, ride me... but, uh, facing... facing away?" John is still adorably shy about voicing his desires sometimes, as though Sherlock will for some reason choose that particular desire as the one and only time he's ever judged John Watson.

But this... this does give Sherlock pause. He's self-conscious about his back-- it's ugly, marred with scars from his time in Serbia, truly the most hideous part of him. He's come to terms with it when John is taking him from behind while he's on all-fours, but this new position means that the moonlight streaming in through the picture windows will hit the scars at just such an angle that they're sure to look even worse than they truly are, and God, won't that make John's stomach turn? It makes Sherlock feel mortified just thinking about it.

"Hey. Look, we don't have to if you don't want to. There's a dozen other ways we can do this and trust me, I'll love them all just as much. It was just an idea."

"No, no, John, of course, it's fine. It's all fine." Sherlock sits up and prepares to throw a leg over, but suddenly John is sitting up as well, cupping Sherlock's face in his hands. 

"Let's put that on pause for a moment. There's something I need to do first." And with that, John positions himself behind Sherlock's back and begins to kiss and lick his way across every scar there.

It's not the first time he's done this, but it still makes Sherlock shake and moan as if each sensation were brand-new. John is so good to him, so accepting of him, so reverent towards every part of him, it makes Sherlock want to prostrate himself at John's feet when he worships his scars like this. But instead, he remains still and lets John worship him, shivering with desire and falling apart at the seams.

Finally, John pulls back, then lies down once more. Sherlock leans over and presses a firm kiss against his lips, a wordless gesture of thanks. He now feels confident, self-assured. John wants to watch his back while he fucks him, and by God, Sherlock will not deny John Watson anything.

He grabs the tube of lube and pours some into his hand and slicks up John's cock with a few quick strokes. Then he turns towards the end of the bed and throws his leg over to straddle John, then shuffles forward on his knees awkwardly into position (well, it's his first time doing this, surely John didn't expect the whole thing to be grace and poise). At last, he reaches down behind himself to grab John's cock and angle it into place, just brushing his entrance. Using his other hand, he parts his cheeks and lowers himself slowly down.

John _howls._ Sherlock has _never_ heard him make a noise like that, and up until this point he's fairly certain he's catalogued every single one of John's reactions. But this one is new.

He turns over his shoulder to see John's face. John's eyes are locked onto the place where he's entering Sherlock--and then Sherlock understands. John didn't want to watch Sherlock's back while he fucked him; he wanted to watch Sherlock's arse while he fucked him.

"You alright back there?"

"Christ, Sherlock, yes. Give me a second. Jesus. I can... I can watch... I can see everything from here."

"Mmm, yes, so I'd imagine. I bet it'd be even better if you put your hands on me."

John's hands fly up from where they'd been clenched at his sides to rest on Sherlock's cheeks, then he's squeezing them firmly and prying them apart, running his thumbs along Sherlock's rim where he's slick with lube and stretched wide around John's cock.

"Christ, _yes,_ that's it. Sherlock, you're beautiful. You're so goddamn beautiful."

"Mmmm." And with that, Sherlock begins to move.

He undulates his back and hips sensuously as he raises himself up and down, riding John's cock in a steady slide. He's more conscious of his general aesthetic than usual; this position clearly caters to John's voyeuristic tendencies, and Sherlock slips easily into the role of exhibitionist. He runs his hands up his own sides, over his neck (John groans and his cock noticeably twitches inside Sherlock), up to his hair (John is reduced to gasps and his hands tighten around Sherlock's buttocks, pulling them further apart, opening him even more). Sherlock repeats this path with hands in rotation, humming sensuously in the deep baritone that he knows John so adores, the muscles in his back flexing in the way he knows drives John absolutely mad with lust.

He may be putting on a bit of a show, but Sherlock is far from faking it. The angle is surprisingly good--fantastic, even, and John's cock feels rock hard and relentless inside of him, making him feel full and _claimed._ And the way John is manhandling his arse feels somehow deliciously primal--he's alternating between pulling Sherlock's cheeks apart to spread him further, and then pressing them together, tightening them around John's cock for additional friction as Sherlock raises and lowers himself at a steady pace.

Sherlock loses himself in the delirium of the sensations washing over him; the pressure of the cock inside him, the grip of John's hands on his arse, the stimulation he provides himself as he cards his hands through his hair, the sensitive follicles lighting up with sparks of pleasure, and the all-consuming knowledge that at _long last,_ he has John Watson's complete, undivided attention.

Then John's knees are bending and he's planting his feet flat on the mattress and using his leverage to thrust up into Sherlock. The first thrust takes him by surprise and he nearly loses his balance altogether, but he manages to grab John's leg just in time to right himself. John thrusts up into him again. And again.

"Oh, God, Sherlock, yes, fuck me, come on, fuck me, just like that..." John's being loud. _Beautifully_ loud.

Sherlock uses his newfound hold on John's leg to provide himself with the leverage he needs to resume raising and lowering himself onto John's cock, but now John is meeting him thrust for thrust, pistoning up into him with a savage force that takes Sherlock's breath away.

_"God, yes, more, faster, that's it, just a little more, Christ, your arse, God, Sherlock, your arse, yes, Sherlock, yes, yes, your-- oh, oh..."_

With a final heroic effort, John grips Sherlock by the hips and brutally grinds him down onto his cock as he comes. Sherlock gasps, helplessly immobilized by John's steady hands and ruthless cock, and cries out as John spills into him in hot, pulsating waves. Sherlock clenches as tight as he can around John's cock, triggering a second wave of ecstasy that leaves John whimpering in its wake.

Sherlock is so goddamn turned on he can't see straight. Blindly he grabs his own cock and it's a mere three strokes before he's coming all over himself and the bedsheets in front of him, John's still-hard cock feeling unfathomably huge inside of him as his muscles contract through his release.

"Oh, God. Oh, Christ. Sherlock. _Sherlock."_ John sounds completely awestruck. Sherlock can't bring himself to say anything; he just rolls helplessly to the side, John slipping wetly from inside of him, leaving him feeling oddly bereft.

They lay like that for a long time, chests heaving, breath unsteady and skin clammy. Finally, John stands up and returns from the bathroom with a warm, wet flannel, which he hands to Sherlock to wipe off his hand. A majority of Sherlock's come had ended up on the sheets, and he reaches down to dab at it, but John grabs the flannel from his hands. "Leave it. They'll change them tomorrow. Now turn around, let me have a look at you."

Sherlock rises to his hands and knees, and John parts his cheeks to inspect him.

"Gorgeous. God, Sherlock, so lovely. You're amazing. You're perfect. You look so beautiful like this." John sounds breathless all over again, and Sherlock smiles to himself. He loves making John fall apart.

Finally, John has looked his fill, and they both collapse side by side into bed for a well-deserved rest.

Sherlock sleeps peacefully, dreaming of all that tomorrow would bring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the lovely and encouraging comments!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A run-in with an old friend brings new truths to light.

John wakes up to the sound of gulls screeching outside the window. Bleary and disorientated, he blinks his eyes open and takes in his surroundings.

Oh, _right--_ he and Sherlock were in Brighton, on holiday. Sunlight is pouring in through their floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the sea, and the entire bed is drenched in golden light. He stretches out against the luxuriously soft sheets and notes how sore his muscles feel, but then he immediately recalls their coital activities the previous day and smiles to himself. Completely worth it.

Rolling over, he reaches for Sherlock, only to find the bed empty and the sheets cool. He pulls himself into a sitting position and reaches for his mobile, but just then the door opens, ushering in a windswept Sherlock, carrying a white paper bag.

"John! You're awake." Sherlock's face lights up. "Was beginning to think you might not get up at all today."

John rubs his eyes lazily. "Mmm. I think that's the first full night's sleep I've had in weeks. What time is it?"

"10:12," Sherlock answers matter-of-factly, without glancing at the clock. He tosses the paper bag onto the bed.

"What's this?"

"Croissants."

"Croissants?"

"Yes, John. Flaky pastry? French in origin? Shaped like a crescent, hence the name?"

"Yes, got that, wisearse, but you... you went out and got us pastries?"

"It's not like I had anything better to do."

"Be that as it may, that was... that was really kind of you, Sherlock. Thank you."

Sherlock blinks rapidly a few times, but then a small smile creeps across his face--he's clearly pleased that John's pleased with him. "Well. I'd say 'any time,' but we both know that would be a lie."

"I'll settle for a 'You're welcome.'"

"You're welcome, John."

Sherlock orders cappuccinos from room service, and they take the croissants out to the balcony and eat them in companionable silence, listening to the sound of the waves crashing against the shore. John feels more relaxed than he has in ages, and it takes all of his willpower to not simply suggest they go back to bed as soon as they've finished eating. But he's not been to Brighton before, and he wants to experience more of what the city has to offer beyond their four bedposts.

So he drags a reluctant Sherlock to the Royal Pavilion (he loses Sherlock on the grounds for the better part of an hour before finding him observing the beehives at the far end of the gardens), followed by a tour and tasting at the local whiskey distillery (Sherlock seems to enjoy muttering deductions into John's ear about the other members of their tasting party much more than he enjoys the actual whiskey), and they conclude their day with a long stroll along the boardwalk, taking in the waning sunlight (and unlike in Cornwall, John remembers to pester Sherlock into applying sunscreen diligently every hour). The day is, in a word, perfect.

Which of course means it could never last. They return to their hotel around 7, and Sherlock announces he's made dinner reservations for them at 8 at some nearby (probably posh) restaurant on the beach. John is sure it will be the type of restaurant where the handsome waiters flirt with Sherlock and summarily ignore John altogether, as though he's some piece of riffraff that happened to drift in on Sherlock's coattails. He steels himself for what he's fairly certain will be an unpleasant evening.

But he finds himself pleasantly surprised. The restaurant, though stylish, is understatedly classy, with a driftwood bar and antique brass fixtures. The clientele is upscale but laid back, and John is further convinced that the evening won't be a total loss when the bartender takes his order less than 30 seconds after he walks up to the bar (normally when Sherlock picked the restaurant, the bartender would ignore John entirely unless he practically waved a £20 note in his face). Triumphant, John carries their drinks back to where Sherlock is hovering casually in the corner while they wait for their table to be ready.

They lock eyes and and clink glasses. But the whiskey has barely brushed their lips when a voice erupts behind them.

"As I live and breathe, if it isn't Sherlock Holmes!" John turns and finds himself startlingly face-to-face with one Sebastian Wilkes.

He looks older than the last time he'd seem him when they'd worked the case at the bank (well, it _had_ been years--small wonder, that), his hair streaked with grey but now coifed into a much more manicured style. He's dressed in one of the obnoxious herringbone sports coats so favoured by the financial set, along with a pair of truly offensively loud salmon-coloured trousers. Clinging to his elbow is a blonde wisp of a woman wearing a pleated navy and white sundress and clutching what John could be certain was an obscenely expensive handbag.

Sherlock's demeanor is entirely changed. Moments ago he'd been relaxed, at ease, his eyes bright and his smile open. Now he's standing unnaturally stiffly, his lips tight, expression drawn.

"Sebastian. What a delightful surprise." Sherlock seems neither delighted nor surprised, much to John's smug satisfaction. "And you remember my friend, John Watson?"

_"Partner."_ The word is out of John's mouth before he has time to question it, and Sebastian raises his eyebrows.

"Partner. Right. This is my wife, Portia." A round of pleasantries ensue, followed by a pregnant pause.

"So, how do you all know each other?" Portia offers, clearly already at her threshold for social awkwardness.

"Sherlock and I went to Uni together, and he and--uh, sorry, was it 'John'?-- _John_ consulted for us at the bank a few years ago."

"Oh, charming. Sherlock, were you on the rugby team with Seb at Uni?"

John nearly spits out his drink at the thought, but Sherlock merely stares her down with an unamused glare. "No."

"Sherlock was more keen on the academics, right, Sherlock? That's how he and I became acquainted." 

Seb seems eager to gloss over the topic, but Sherlock is merciless. "Academics. Sure." His words are laced with a bitter bite that's impossible to miss.

John opens his mouth to interject (as much as he'd like to watch the situation play out, he'd rather diffuse things than endure the rising discomfort), but Portia beats him it.

"Oh, of _course,_ I thought your name sounded familiar! You were Seb's tutor! He's mentioned you, and that funny party trick you used to do. What did you call it again? _Deductions?"_

"It's hardly a party trick." Sherlock's voice is low and dangerous, and John scrambles to find a way to intervene, but Portia is too quick.

"Right, right, of course not, but still! You should deduce me! I want to see how it works, Seb said it was simply unreal."

John hazards a glance over at Sherlock, but his eyes are locked into Seb's in what seems to be a sort of silent showdown. John doesn't need to be the world's greatest consulting detective to sense the palpable tension between the two of them.

"Is that so, Seb?" Sherlock's voice is practically dripping with derision. "And what else did you mention to Portia about me?"

Portia pipes up once again, either entirely oblivious or deliberately obtuse, John can't determine which. "That was all, which is why I simply must see your deductions in action! Come on, be a sport! Do me!"

Sherlock's eyes finally rivet away from Sebastian's face to fall on Portia. He rakes them over her quickly, and John can practically see him synthesizing the information for what's surely about to be a catastrophic take-down. Sherlock opens his mouth.

Just then, Portia's mobile pings. She holds up a well-manicured finger. "Goodness, I am _so_ sorry, but I simply have to check that. It might be our nanny. Our daughter's only six months old and this is our first time leaving town without her, you can imagine I'm at my wits' end." She plucks her mobile from her handbag and glances at the screen. "Oh, never mind. Just my sister. So, where were we?"

John seizes the opportunity. "So you have a daughter, then? So do we, but she's nearly two. Still, we haven't gone on holiday without her before. It really takes some getting used to, doesn't it?"

"Goodness, _yes,"_ Portia concurs. "When I'm at home with her I feel desperate for a bit of a break, but the moment I leave, it's practically unbearable without her, isn't it?"

John laughs amiably and nods. "I know the feeling. It gets easier, though, it really does." He and Portia share a smile.

_"You_ have a daughter?" The momentary respite in awkwardness is eclipsed by Seb's interjection. He's staring at Sherlock as though he's just announced he's the Queen of England.

Sherlock opens his mouth, but for once, nothing comes out. His eyes dart to John helplessly. John shifts to stand next to him and wraps his arm around Sherlock's waist. "Yes, we do. Problem?"

Seb's eyes narrow. "Just didn't think they'd let someone like you adopt, Sherlock. What, with your history of... issues. Drugs, and all that." His words are laced with vitriol and spoken like a challenge.

"Seb!" Portia seems mortified by her husband's forwardness, but Sebastian seems undeterred.

John squares his shoulders and steps in front of Sherlock slightly. He's not a young man anymore, but Seb's words are fighting words, and he's never been known to back down. "Sherlock's past _issues_ are none of your goddamn concern. He's an excellent father and a brilliant role model and a good man, and Rosie is the luckiest child on earth to have him in her life. Which is more than your fucking kid will be able to say for you. Come on, Sherlock. We were just leaving."

With that, he grabs Sherlock's hand and leads him forcibly from the bar, barely pausing to deposit their drinks on a table by the door.

The cool sea air hits him in a wave of blissful relief. He feels hot all over, nearly shaking with rage and indignation. He's been working on his temper, truly he has, but the GALL of that boorish, _heartless_ wanker to question Sherlock's abilities as a parent has John seething at a level he's not reached in ages. He feels a momentary twinge of guilt for making them miss out on the dinner Sherlock had planned, but if they'd stuck around a moment longer he's fairly certain he would have gotten them kicked out when he beat Sebastian Wilkes within an inch of his _worthless_ life. The man was a sodding, self-righteous, smug, sniveling _bastard,_ and he had _dared_ speak to Sherlock like that. How dare he. How fucking dare he.

"John. John, can we slow down, please? John."

John wasn't aware of how fast he was walking, but he suddenly realizes he's all but dragging Sherlock down the street by his hand, Sherlock stumbling slightly in his efforts to keep up without compromising John's vice-like grip.

John slows immediately and lets go of Sherlock's hand, but he doesn't stop walking, and he doesn't turn to look at Sherlock. He carries on until he reaches the boardwalk, vacant at this hour, and staggers forward to lean against the railing, staring out into the black abyss of the sea. 

He heaves in a deep breath through his nose, then slowly exhales.

He repeats.

And once more.

Finally, his heart seems to be slowing, and the rush of hot fury is receding. He blinks a few times, clearing his vision and steadying himself. He turns his head to see Sherlock standing beside him, eyes fixed on the water, face expressionless.

John can't resist asking. "He was one of them, wasn't he?"

"One of who?" Sherlock's tone is calm and unwavering.

"A few weeks ago, after we'd been unwinding... you told me about how the men you'd been with before... were unkind. Seb was one of them, wasn't he?"

Sherlock issues a wane smile. "He was the first. I was 19, fresh out of my first stint in rehab. Started at Uni with no friends and no future. He asked me to come to his dorm room to help him study for history. I was so thrilled that anyone was speaking to me that I never questioned his motives."

"He didn't... he didn't force you, did he?" Christ, if he had, John was going to walk straight back to that restaurant and tear Sebastian's chest open and crush his still-beating heart in his fist. There was no question in his mind.

"No, John. Nothing like that. I was young and desperate and confused. He merely took advantage of my loneliness, not my virtue. _That_ I was all too eager to give up in exchange for a friend."

John purses his lips and returns his gaze to the sea. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you that I'd been with men who used me? I did, I thought you understood..."

"I meant years ago. When he called us in to work that case. Why didn't you tell me about your past with him?"

"What should I have said, John? _'By the way, the client is an old friend from Uni who used to call me names and pull my hair while he shoved his cock down my throat, then pretended he didn't know me the second we left his dorm room?'_ Christ, John, at that point I hadn't known you for very long, and you seemed paralyzed with mortification at the mere _insinuation_ that you and I might be an item. I hadn't yet been able to deduce if you were homophobic, insecure in your own masculinity, or compensating for something. It didn't seem like the right time to bring up my sordid sexual past."

John barrels right past that point and soldiers on. "Why the hell did you want to help him with that case, anyway? He was horrible to you."

Sherlock sighs. "He wasn't horrible, John. Some of the other later ones were, but not Seb. He never did anything I asked him not to do. I never told him to stop, even when I should have. And after I refused to see him when I'd finally had enough, he left me well enough alone. He was young, John. So was I."

"So what, you chalk it up to youthful indiscretion? Things still seemed tense between the two of you tonight. Even more so than back when we worked his case."

Sherlock shrugs. "He's gay. He's not bisexual, he's flat-out gay, and he's known it for a long time. He's cheating on his wife with multiple partners, and now he's brought a child into this world with her, and she has no idea. It's one thing if he wants to mess about with his own life, but to bring others into it... that's cruel."

John nods thoughtfully as the pieces fall into place. The case of the Blind Banker was so long ago, but it suddenly seems pressingly present. He wishes more than anything that he could go back to that moment when Sherlock had introduced him to Seb: "This is my _friend,_ John Watson."

_"Colleague,"_ John had corrected. He cringes at the recollection.

But there's nothing for it, now. He releases his hold of the railing and moves over to stand by Sherlock's side, and takes his hand.

"I'm sorry about what happened between the two of you."

"It's not your fault. It is what it is."

"I know. But still."

"It doesn't matter anymore. You're here now."

"Yes," John smiles. "Yes, I am."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just realised that there are no sexytimes in this chapter! Sorry! Don't worry, the last two chapters will be extra filthy to make up for it, promise...


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a little something to take the edge off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're new to this series (Welcome!), I have written their relationship with some D/S undertones throughout. Everything is explicitly safe/sane/consensual and thoroughly negotiated, but if that's not your jam, now's the time to tap out!

They stop at a hole-in-the-wall falafel joint on their way back to the hotel, one of the few carry-out business still open at that hour. They eat as they walk, the sound of the sea filling the silence between them. 

But John can feel it. The nameless, shapeless thing that passes between them in moments like this. Back before Sherlock fell, John would recognize this feeling right before they had one of their clandestine encounters, finally falling to temptation and getting each other off in a frantic frenzy of hands and lips and teeth. Tonight, the feeling is back, the strange, vibrating anticipation. The manifestation of _need._

John's notices a slight tremble in his hand as he unlocks the door to their hotel room. Anticipation and adrenaline are swirling through his bloodstream, and his heart feels like it's about to beat out of his chest. It's an all-consuming want.

He doesn't bother to turn the light on as he steps into the room. He simply turns, grabs Sherlock by the front of his shirt, and pulls him in for a passionate kiss, full of heat and desire. Sherlock moans into his mouth and stumbles to press John back against the wall, his hands flying to John's chest to hold him in place as his tongue probes past his lips.

Then Sherlock's lips are gone, working their way from John's jawbone down his neck, and John tips his head back against the wall and issues a soft cry as Sherlock steps forward to press their groins together and grind. He can feel Sherlock rising to full hardness, and he's not far behind; his trousers feel uncomfortably tight, and they both need to be naked, _right the hell now._

He pushes Sherlock away and he stumbles back, then John reaches for his shirt to begin to fumble with the buttons.

"Wait." Sherlock sounds breathless, his voice barely a whisper. He says it so softly that it doesn't register with John, who is about one second away from giving up on unfastening the bloody buttons and just tearing Sherlock's shirt right off of him. _"Wait."_

This time it registers, and John's hands still immediately. He steps away and meets Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock is panting, his form trembling slightly in the moonlight streaming in through the windows.

"Sherlock? You alright?"

Sherlock takes a deep breath. "Yes. Yes, I just... I was wondering..."

He seems so shy, so uncertain all of a sudden, his eyes dropping to the floor to hide beneath long lashes, biting his lip tentatively.

"Sherlock. You can ask me anything. The worst I'll ever tell you is no."

It's as though Sherlock had been holding in a tidal wave of words, which then begin to flow from his mouth so quickly John can barely grasp them. "I was wondering if we could _unwind._ I'm sorry, I know it's supposed to be your mini-break, you're supposed to be relaxing, and here I'm asking you to-- it's stupid of me, selfish, I'm sorry, but we haven't in so long, and after what happened at the bar, I just want... I want to... let you..." He trails off, shifting side to side on his feet uncertainly.

_Oh._

_Unwinding_ is the term they use for the times that John dominates Sherlock sexually. They mainly do it after cases, as a way to restore equilibrium to their dynamic after Sherlock has taken control during The Work. Sherlock submits to John gradually, and it's up to John to take him apart piece by piece until he's fully down, completely at John's mercy. It's a beautiful, intricate process that only the two of them understand, and it's one of the things John cherishes most about their relationship.

John steps forward and takes Sherlock's hands. "Sherlock, I would love to."

Sherlock's eyes snap up to meet his. "Really?"

John grins. "Do you remember the conversation we had a few months ago about _unwinding?_ It's not just good for you. I love it too. And you're right, we haven't had a chance to do it in a while, and I would very much enjoy doing it with you tonight. I think I might need it, too."

Sherlock grins. "Okay. Good. Alright, then." He stands up straighter automatically, shoulders back. Awaiting orders.

John doesn't hesitate. "I want you to go clean up in the shower. As always, you have seven minutes. Don't touch your cock. There's no need to put on clothes, just dry yourself off and meet me back here."

"Yes, John." The words spill from Sherlock's lips like a benediction, and the relief spreading across his face is almost palpable. He turns and hastily makes his way to the bathroom.

John snaps into action. Seven minutes isn't a lot of time, but he knows Sherlock values certain parts of their _unwinding_ routine (they help to ground him as he's in the process of succumbing to his submissive headspace), and the seven-minute shower is one of their most consistent.

So John has seven minutes to MacGyver together a session using the _very_ limited means at his disposal. But he's nothing if not industrious, and he resolves himself to making do with what's at hand.

Seven minutes later, Sherlock emerges from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, and John's heart seems to skip a beat.

"Stop right there." Sherlock freezes. He's all smooth muscle and flat planes, his pale skin all but glowing in the moonlight pouring in through the picture windows. He's completely nude save for John's dog tags, which hang around his neck--they've been there since John gave them to him almost two months ago, but this is the first time John's taken the time to truly appreciate their presence there. Sherlock was ordered to strip, but he left the tags on. He doesn't consider them clothes. He considers them a part of him. The poignancy of this act makes John's heart swell with emotion.

He steps forward and grasps the tags, turning them over slowly in his hand. "These look lovely on you, sweetheart. Have you been enjoying them?"

"Yes, John."

"Good. Open up, taste for me." Sherlock opens his mouth and John places the tags delicately on his tongue. "There you go. Suck now." Sherlock closes his lips and sucks on the tags, his eyes fluttering shut as he focuses on the sensation. John observes as his cock swells and fills.

"Lovely." He pulls his tags from Sherlock's mouth and Sherlock releases them with a whimper, a string of saliva spilling down his chin as John lowers the tags back to his chest. He wipes the saliva away gently with his fingers, then picks up Sherlock's scarf off the bed. "Alright, love. You know the rules. If you want to stop, just say so. If you can't speak, snap your fingers. Understood?"

"Yes, John."

"Good." And without further ado, John wraps Sherlock's scarf around his eyes to blindfold him.

Sherlock's breath rate increases immediately. They've experimented with sensory deprivation on occasion, but this is their first time trying it outside of 221B, and John can imagine that the experience would be exhilarating but a little disorientating. He takes Sherlock by the upper arm and slowly guides him over to the middle of the three picture windows, then places his hands deliberately on the edges of the window frame, displaying his naked form clearly in view to anyone who might pass by on the currently-vacant boardwalk. 

"There we are. Beautiful." Sherlock is trembling slightly, and John runs his hand reassuringly up and down his spine. "It's alright, sweetheart. You look gorgeous. Nothing to be ashamed of. Let me show you off a bit."

Sherlock utters a sharp cry as though caught off-guard by a poorly-thrown punch, and he leans forward slightly. John observes as his cock twitches, a bead of pre-come forming at the tip.

"Oh, you like that, do you? You like me showing you off, showing the world what's mine to have?" Sherlock whimpers and nods. John grins and steps close behind him, then reaches around to stroke Sherlock's cock. "I could bring you off just like this, you know. It would be so easy. But I think that would be letting you off the hook, don't you? You want me to show you off, I'll show you off. But it had better be a good show."

Sherlock gasps and bows his head and thrusts helplessly into John's hand as he strokes him. 

Then as suddenly as he started, John pulls away. Sherlock whimpers, but stays still.

"That's it, sweetheart. Here's what's going to happen now. You're going to keep your hands exactly where I put them. No matter what happens, you're not to let go until I give you permission. Understood?"

Sherlock whimpers.

"I asked you a question. Understood?"

"Yes, John."

"Good." And with that, John falls to his knees behind Sherlock, pulls his cheeks apart, and presses his tongue into him.

Sherlock wails. And for once, John has absolutely no incentive to tell him to be quiet. Sherlock can make as much noise as he likes. The idea turns John on to no end.

John doesn't rim Sherlock that often, but when he does, he makes sure he does a bang-up job of it. He alternates long slow licks from his perineum to his sacrum with deep, decadent jabs that penetrate him deeply. He licks and sucks his entrance with single-minded diligence, reducing Sherlock to a quivering mess, his legs threatening to go out from under him each time John lavishes him with a series of quick darts of his tongue around his entrance followed by the slow press of his lips. John is making plenty of noise, too, intent on expressing to Sherlock just how much he's enjoying this access to his most intimate of areas.

Finally, Sherlock's hole is slick with saliva, and John pulls back to admire it. He wants to try something new but he's not sure if it'll be too much-- but hell, no time like the present to try.

Slowly, hesitantly, he brings his thumbs to his mouth one by one and wets them thoroughly, then brings them both to Sherlock's hole. Gently, he presses them both in side-by-side.

Sherlock goes completely still and falls utterly silent. John freezes, waiting to hear if Sherlock is going to tell him to stop, or perhaps snap is fingers if he's beyond words. But there's nothing, just the beautiful heat of anticipation. 

As carefully as he can, he pulls Sherlock open with his thumbs as wide as he dares. Sherlock doesn't flinch. He doesn't make a sound. John looks up to see that the muscles of his back are taught and trembling, but he's not telling him to stop.

John leans forward and buries his face between his hands, forcing his tongue in through the pathway cleared by his thumbs, licking deeper into Sherlock than he's ever been able to before.

John doesn't hear Sherlock at first. The sound he makes starts as a quiet whine, but escalates rapidly into a droning, stuttering sob that wracks his body from head to toe. John is relentless, using the leverage of his thumbs to keep Sherlock's hole open and accessible, and he continues to push his tongue in as far as he can, swirling it to reach every part of him.

And he doesn't stop. He works Sherlock over for a long time, losing himself in the joy of providing Sherlock such pleasure, Sherlock's sobs and whimpers music to his ears as he stretches him further and more deeply than ever. 

"J-John. _John._ Please. Pl..." Sherlock sounds utterly wrecked. He's clearly trying to beg John, but he's past the point of words. He's forcing himself back onto John's tongue and thumbs almost violently. He's shivering uncontrollably.

John pulls his tongue out. "Oh, love. You're desperate for it, aren't you?"

"Nnngh. Yes. Oh God, yes."

"Look at you. On display for all the world to see, being so good for me, so beautiful. Do you want to come, sweetheart?"

"Y-y-y-yes."

"Are you sure? Even in this window? Will you let go for me, even here?"

"Yes."

"Good. Hold on, now. I need to take you a little further. Don't come until I tell you to." John pulls out his thumbs but quickly replaces them with three fingers from his right hand. With his left, he reaches around to take hold of Sherlock throbbing shaft.

Sherlock keens with pleasure and bends over further, offering himself to John's ministrations. John begins to stroke him with one hand while penetrating him in a deep, rhythmic motion with the other.

Sherlock throws back his head and wails.

"That's it, sweetheart. Alright, now. You can come whenever you want to." And with that, John dips his head back between Sherlock's cheeks and forces his tongue in beside his fingers, which he begins to press directly against Sherlock's prostate.

Sherlock cries out over and over. John focuses on keeping his tongue in place and his fingers in motion and his other hand gripped in a tight channel for Sherlock to thrust into, which he does with animalistic intensity. 

Then Sherlock's entire body seizes and grips John's fingers so tightly that his tongue is forced from its station beside them. He can feel Sherlock's cock pulsing in his hand as he comes, and John licks his rim in time with the contractions. Sherlock is letting out a series of grunts as he thrusts helplessly, torn between the pleasure of John's fist around his cock and John's fingers inside him.

Eventually, the contractions cease, and Sherlock slumps forward, head resting on the windowpane in front of him. He still doesn't move his hands.

"God, Sherlock, that was amazing. Fantastic. Brilliant. You're so good for me. Be still now, let me have you." Sherlock hums lazily as John rises to his feet and shakes out his legs. They're full of pins and needles, but his cock is so hard he barely has the brain power to register it. He reaches behind himself to grab the lube from where he left it at the foot of the bed, pulls his cock from his trousers, slicks himself up, and then presses into Sherlock's open entrance.

Sherlock moans quietly as John takes him, but he remains unresisting to the onslaught of John's advances. John thrusts into him in quick, rapid motions; there's a time for passionate love-making, but this is most certainly not it. He grips Sherlock's hips firmly and holds him in place as he chases his pleasure, allowing himself to indulge in the vision of Sherlock's blindfolded form before him.

But Sherlock seems a bit too relaxed for this early in the session. He seems to be drifting already, and that simply wouldn't do. With one hand, John reaches out and grabs a fistful of Sherlock's hair and _pulls,_ yanking his forehead back from where it had been resting against the windowpane. Sherlock shouts in a combination of pain and surprise, and his channel tightens deliciously around John's cock. John twists Sherlock's hair between his fingers as Sherlock issues a loud moan, arching his back and tensing his arms to provide more resistance, urging John to take him deeper. John doesn't hesitate.

Within moments he's coming, pulling Sherlock back by his hair so that his body meets John thrust for thrust.

Eventually, the waves of pleasure recede, and the room is silent except for the sounds of their uneven breathing. John pulls out slowly and then bends to examine Sherlock's entrance. As always, the sight of him takes John's breath away, and he feels a surge of arousal course through him, even though he's just come.

But it'll be at least an hour before they can go again. He'll just have to keep them occupied in the meantime.

He wraps his arms around Sherlock from behind and guides him to a standing position. "That's it, sweetheart. You can let go of the window frame now." Sherlock does, his arms dropping to his side like heavy weights. He's still wearing the blindfold and his sense of balance seems off, so John proceeds with caution as he guides Sherlock to lie down on the bed, then stands and fastens his own trousers once more.

He'd already preemptively stripped off the duvet, leaving just the sheets and a single pillow in place. He rests Sherlock's head on the pillow and steps back, admiring his prone form. Sherlock's breathing is deep and even. His face seems relaxed and peaceful, even with the blindfold on.

"Sherlock, you with me?"

"Yes, John."

"Alright. More?"

"Yes, please, John."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, they're off to a lovely start.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The weekend comes to a most delightful conclusion.

John lowers himself to sit beside Sherlock on the bed. He gently grasps both of his wrists and places his hands on the pillow beside his head.

"Alright, sweetheart. I'm not going to restrain you tonight, but I am going to order you to hold still. I want you to keep your hands right here because I want them there. Will you do that for me?"

"Yes, John."

"Good." Satisfied, John turns to the nightstand, and grabs the now-full ice bucket.

Sherlock twitches in anticipation and turns his head to the side, attempting to identify the sound. He's rarely particularly observant when he's in this state, and John's not surprised he hadn't registered the presence of the ice bucket when he emerged from the bathroom; by the time he's out of the shower, he's usually halfway gone already.

John plucks a single ice cube from the bucket. He and Sherlock have never done this before, but he's read about it on message boards, and it seems tame enough that there's no real risk in trying it out for the first time in an unfamiliar location. He lowers the cube to the top of Sherlock's right foot.

Sherlock hisses and stiffens, but he doesn't move. John holds the cube in place for a few seconds, just long enough for it to start to become uncomfortable, and then slowly drags it up to Sherlock's inner thigh, which begins to tremble immediately. Sherlock moans.

Interesting.

John continues along the logical trajectory, tracing the cube up the crease of Sherlock's groin to his jutting hipbone, which he circles in slow, lazy motions. Then further up, along his protruding ribs, the trails of melted water tracing the lines of his form with a casual grace. He circles his pec, but gives his nipple a wide enough berth so as not to stimulate any part of it directly, noting the way that Sherlock first recoils from the sensation and then arches at the loss as John carries on upwards until he abandons the remnants of the cube in the hollow of Sherlock's throat.

John sits back and observes his results.

And _damn._ That had worked quite the charm.

Sherlock's face is flushed and his breathing is accelerated, and he's trembling slightly from head to toe. Despite having come mere minutes before, his cock is already beginning to show interest in the proceedings. His hands are clenched into fists, which he's holding obediently beside his head. He's chewing his lip compulsively.

_Fascinating._

When he'd read the entries about this on the message boards, John hadn't found the idea of ice particularly erotic, but many of the posters had flagged this activity as particularly stimulating for the submissive partner. John had been disinclined to believe them, and yet here's the proof in front of him; Sherlock is clearly _exceedingly_ turned on by this activity, for reasons which John can't quite fathom. But far be it from him to question this turn of events.

He picks up another cube and traces the same path along Sherlock's left side that he had his right. Again, Sherlock nearly vibrates off the bed, issuing a series of long, low moans that seem to go straight to John's cock. He leaves the remnants of the cube to melt in the hollow of Sherlock's throat, then bows to suck the melted water up in long, slow pulls that will surely leave a mark. Sherlock trembles harder.

John sits up once again and surveys the situation. Time to push Sherlock a bit further, he thinks, and collects a handful of ice this time. He proceeds to place single cubes strategically across Sherlock's prone form; one on each thigh, one in the divot beside each hip bone, one on his sternum, one just above his belly button, and finally, one on each wrist. 

John stands up and backs away from the bed. "Now, stay. Don't move. You're not to flinch until those have completely melted. If any of them slip off, you're going to be punished. Do you understand?"

Sherlock's voice is barely a whisper. "Yes, John."

"Good." John lowers himself onto the settee to wait, and watch.

It's strangely beautiful. Though the ice doesn't do anything for him, particularly, the effect it's having on Sherlock is stunning to behold. He's practically fully-erect now, his cock twitching eagerly where it lays hard and flushed between his legs, and he's issuing a low whining sound in the back of his throat. Suddenly, he tips his head back and lets his mouth fall open and begins to drag in long, solid gasps of air. The melting ice trails rivulets down his body that catch beautifully in the moonlight, and John sighs to himself as he watches, letting the beauty of Sherlock's total obedience wash over him. He begins to touch himself.

He's not hard yet, and he's a bit oversensitive, but seeing Sherlock in such a state of submission is doing wonders for his refractory period. He revels in the relaxed pace of this encounter; there's nothing to rush them, no one to bother them. Just the two of them. Just like this.

At long last, the last remnants of the ice are gone. Slowly, deliberately, John approaches the bed. He bends and presses his lips to bite and suck at each location where the cubes had been, leaving the skin flushed and mottled with overstimulation in his wake. Sherlock issues sharp, bitten-off cries as he does so. John doesn't quiet him.

He refreshes the ice cubes twice more after the first round melts completely, offsetting their locations by a few inches each time so as not to cause any damage to the skin. Each round makes Sherlock whimper and moan, and by the last round, he's thrashing his head slightly side-to-side, as if desperately trying to displace the blindfold. 

But the blindfold holds, and his hands stay still, and John is getting very, very hard. Time to move on.

He knows this next part will be challenging, but he wants to push Sherlock tonight. He knows how badly he needs this after their long hiatus, and he wants to make it perfect for him. Perfect for them both.

He sits down on the side of the bed and reaches into the bucket for two more ice cubes. Sherlock whimpers in anticipation, the blindfold preventing him from predicting John's next move. Without hesitation, John turns and presses them firmly against his nipples.

Sherlock wails. His back arches and his feet scramble for purchase, but he obeys John's order to keep his hands firmly in place on the pillow beside his head. Eventually his body stills, but he continues to gasp and moan helplessly as John presses down with the ice relentlessly.

Sherlock's nipples are notoriously sensitive. John's occasionally wondered if Sherlock could come from nipple stimulation alone (his cock leaks enough during foreplay with them that it certainly seems like a possibility), but he's never actually thought to try it out--not tonight, perhaps, but he mentally files it away for a future session. But knowing how sensitive Sherlock is, John can only imagine that the ice against them must be excruciating.

He begins to trace slow circles around his areola, catching just the edges of the most sensitive nub on each pass. Then he experiments with wider circles, then narrower ones, finally coming to hold the cubes firmly down on the engorged points as Sherlock twists and swears. John's fairly certain he's crying (the blindfold makes it impossible to tell), but he's not moving his hands, and he's not asked to stop.

"Good, sweetheart, that's it. Let me hear you. It's alright. You can take this."

"Gah! John! John--" (An amusing litany of profanity follows in a rush of breath, but John doesn't quite catch it all.)

"It's okay. Come on. You're being so good for me. Steady now."

"Fuck! John! John, it's... I'm... fuck..."

The last of the cubes melts away and John gives both of Sherlock's nipples a firm pinch before reaching into the bucket and replacing them. A new string of expletives follows.

"Come on, Sherlock. Easy does it. Stay with me now." John hazards a glance down at Sherlock's cock, just to make sure he's still engaged.

Sherlock is insanely hard. His cock is flushed almost purple and emitting a frankly shocking amount of precome. Sherlock's balls are pulled tight against his quivering body, and he looks as if a slight breeze may set him off.

Gorgeous. Fucking gorgeous.

"Mmmm. That's it, love. Little bit further now, come on. Stay with me."

Sherlock has ceased swearing and has been reduced to quiet, wet gasps. He's definitely crying under the blindfold, the realisation of which sends a jolt straight to John's cock (he pushes that thought away immediately--he hates the fact that making Sherlock cry during sex turns him on, it's fucking _weird,_ and he makes a deliberate effort to never, ever think about it too hard).

Everything is still, the silence of the air broken only by Sherlock's sobs as the overstimulation of his chest wears on. Finally, the last of the ice has melted, and John bends to lap at his nipples gently. Sherlock shudders and shifts slightly. John hums in approval.

Eventually John pulls away and stands yet again. Sherlock falls eerily still, waiting to see what he'll do next.

John has to make a choice. He can go ahead and fuck Sherlock right now, which he's sure would be pleasurable enough, and they'd both have a lovely time.

Or...

_("What if?" whispers a dark little voice in the back of John's mind. "What if he could be just a little closer to the edge? Fall just a little further apart? What if?")_

Sod it.

John turns and makes his way to the closet, where he rummages blindly in the dark--surely he remembers seeing some in here earlier?-- until his hand falls on just the items he's looking for. Delighted, he returns to Sherlock's bedside.

Sherlock groans and flexes his limbs slightly, unable to anticipate what will happen next. John smiles.

Then he quickly reaches down to affix two clothes pegs to Sherlock's pert nipples.

Sherlock shouts, and his body jackknifes up from the bed. His hands fly to his hair (nowhere _near_ their designated positions) and he curls in on himself, clearly in agony. He seems completely beyond words as he tips to his side in a fetal position.

"Hey. Hey now." John runs his hands soothingly over Sherlock's side as he trembles and sobs, his muscles taught, his hands in tight fists. "Sweetheart, are you with me? If you want to stop, just say so."

Sherlock issues a wet gasp, but shakes his head.

"Alright. Alright, then, love, we keep going." Sherlock nods muzzily.

"Sweetheart, where are your hands?"

_"Oh."_ It's as if Sherlock is registering for the first time that he's moved. He unclenches his fists and immediately rolls over onto his back to return his hands to their place beside his head on the pillow. He grimaces as the pegs pull at his nipples as he resumes his position on his back.

"There we are. Much better. But sweetheart, you moved your hands when you weren't supposed to. That's not good."

Sherlock issues a high whine and arches his back, gasping at the pain as the pegs pull tighter.

"I'm afraid that means I'm going to have to punish you."

Sherlock opens and closes his mouth, trying to form words that won't come. Finally, he resigns himself to nodding.

"Okay, then. I know you understand." As he's speaking, John walks around to the foot of the bed, then climbs up on his knees. He grabs Sherlock's thighs and presses them apart before he shuffles forward, unfastening his own trousers and pushing them down as he does so. He grabs the lube and pours a small amount into his hand and slicks up his hard length; Sherlock should still be open and prepped from their last go-around, so there needn't be any fanfare. He lines himself up with Sherlock's fluttering hole, and presses inside.

And _oh._ Sherlock is warm and wet and slick with spit and lube and come, and John's head swims with lust as he begins to slowly, experimentally thrust.

"Mmmm. That's it, now. Keep your hands where they are, love." He begins to move in a steady rhythm, slowly, without urgency, just enjoying the sensation of being inside Sherlock. He takes a deep breath as he continues to move. "Here's what's going to happen: I'm going to have you, and you're going to stay very still. I didn't want it to be this way, I wanted you to enjoy this, I wanted to make you come, but unfortunately, you didn't behave."

Sherlock whines miserably but pulls his thighs up even closer to his chest, allowing John to sink in deeper.

"So instead, I'm going to fuck you until I come, and you're not going to do anything. You are not to move your hands. You are not to speak. You are sure as hell not going to come, or I am going to be very, _very_ angry with you, is that understood?"

Sherlock nods.

"Good. Open your mouth."

Sherlock does so without question, and John picks up his dog tags from where they lie on Sherlock's chest, and drops them onto his tongue. Sherlock closes his mouth, sucks, and moans.

John nearly comes on the spot.

But he doesn't. Instead, he lets himself revel in the moment.

He tries not to be too self-aware when they're unwinding, but sometimes he allows himself to indulge in rare moments of reflection, in which he revels in the utter depravity of whatever it is that they're doing--and this is one such rare moment. 

He takes in the way Sherlock's face looks when he's like this--mouth supple and moist as he sucks on John's tags, gorgeous cheekbones peeking out from beneath the blindfold, hair wild and untamed where it's splayed across the pillow. He admires the way Sherlock's skin looks under him, white as porcelain in the moonlight, his to plunder and pillage and control. He observes the way Sherlock's nipples look, swollen and hard in the confines of the pegs, taking this torture so beautifully at his behest. He contemplates how empowering it feels to have Sherlock completely naked and submissive beneath him, while he remains clothed and in control, Sherlock's body wanton and lax in comparison with his, full of precision and purpose.   
He feels drunk with power, pushing Sherlock to this place, forcing him down and using him at his will. It's unlike anything he has ever, ever known.

He groans as he turns his attention to the way Sherlock's hole is clenching around him. He can feel the wetness of his earlier release all around him, and the recollection of fucking Sherlock so beautifully up against the window makes him infinitely harder. Christ, the things Sherlock will do for him. All for him.

He speeds up his thrusts and aims directly for Sherlock's prostate.

He knows the moment he hits it; Sherlock's entire body spasms and his cock twitches and drools a stream of precome onto his stomach, but Sherlock remains mute and his hands remain in place. His breathing accelerates slightly, John can hear the way he's pulling in shorter, sharper breaths through his flailing nostrils, but he remains pliant and submissive.

"Good. Good." John pummels his prostate harder and he can feel Sherlock's body begin to tense in preparation for release. He's done this enough to know what each flinch and quiver means, and he wildly wonders if Sherlock will tell him to stop if he's about to go over the edge.

But no, no, that's not Sherlock's place. It's up to John to know when to stop, it's up to John to know when Sherlock's had enough, and he's very nearly there. But not quite; the ripple that makes its way up Sherlock's abdomen _just_ before he comes hasn't yet made an appearance; that means there's still a chance to pull Sherlock back from the edge.

John grips the headboard and thrusts into Sherlock for all he's worth. Sherlock is heaving with the effort of self-restraint and thrashing his head from side to side, but he keeps his legs open, his hands in place, and remains resolutely silent as John chases his pleasure. 

God, he is _perfect._

John comes in deep, violent thrusts, reaming into Sherlock's body with all the strength he has. He's shouting; he's not forming any words, just sounds-- the agony and the ecstasy and the pain and the pleasure all in one and he fills Sherlock with another load. Beneath him, Sherlock remains utterly still, head tipped back, suckling the dog tags with his gorgeous plush lips.

The aftershocks last for a while. John continues to thrust lazily into Sherlock; he's avoiding his prostate now, and Sherlock seems to be relaxing, his orgasm at bay for the time being. By the time John finally pulls out, he's nearly gone soft, and he tucks himself quickly back into his trousers before pressing Sherlock's thighs apart to inspect his glistening hole.

He's deliciously messy. John heaves a shuttering breath. Christ.

John backs up off the bed and walks around to the side. He pulls his tags from between Sherlock's lips.

"You with me, sweetheart?"

"Yes, John." Sherlock's voice sounds wrecked, hoarse from sobbing and disuse.

"Good." John surveys Sherlock carefully. His skin is beginning to purple in the places John sucked and bit it, and his cock is throbbing helplessly where it juts out from his groin. His nipples look firey red and angry from their position trapped inside the pegs. 

He's a masterpiece.

John squeezes a bit of lube into his right hand.

"Alright, love. You can make noise again now, and you're allowed to move anything you like, except your hands. Those stay by your head. Do you understand?"

"Yes, John."

"Lovely. You did so well there. I'm very proud of you for not coming. In fact, I've decided to give you a little reward. I'd like you to come for me."

A smile blossoms across Sherlock's face, and John finds himself grinning back.

"Nice and easy now. No rush. Let me take care of you." With that, he reaches down and begins to lightly stroke Sherlock's cock. He keeps the pressure gentle, just this side of teasing, and Sherlock gasps as his cock twitches with need.

Slowly, little by little, John begins to tighten his grip. Sherlock yelps and squirms.

With no warning, John reaches up with his left hand and flicks one of the pegs off of Sherlock's nipple.

The sound Sherlock makes is more animal than human. His back bows off the bed entirely and John is suddenly bewilderingly concerned that this is starting to strongly resemble an exorcism when Sherlock collapses back to the bed, chest heaving with exertion.

"Hngh. Ha. Ha. J--Jo--Johnnn." Sherlock is crying again, gasping John's name as he struggles to bring in his breath.

"That's it, love. One more."

"John. Hurts. God, please. John. John."

"I know, sweetheart. I know it hurts. One more, and then you'll come for me."

Without hesitation, John reaches up and flicks off the other peg, then begins to stroke Sherlock's cock mercilessly, applying enough pressure to be just this side of painful.

Sherlock's feet plant onto the bed and he begins to thrust up into the tight hole of John's fist. Then he's wailing and contorting and coming in thick, steady streaks that shoot up his torso and onto his neck. His hands, however, remain beautifully in place on the pillow, fingers opening and closing as though grasping for something just out of reach.

John strokes him until he's whimpering from oversensitivity. When he finally releases him, Sherlock's head lolls to the side, his chest heaving. He looks destroyed. John steps back.

"Beautiful. Love, that was so gorgeous. You did so well."

Sherlock issues a wet little sigh and sinks further into the pillow.

"Alright, now. Sweetheart, do you want to be done? Or we can keep going."

Sherlock moans and mutters something inaudible under his breath. John steps forward and brushes the matted curls off his forehead, then places a soft kiss there.

"Use words, love. I can't understand you if you don't speak up."

"W'vr you want."

"Pardon?"

Sherlock seems to summon every last ounce of strength he has left. "Whatever you want, John. Anything you want."

John feels like his heart is going to explode. 

He bends down and presses a firm kiss against Sherlock's lips, then turns back to the ice bucket once more, from which he produces the _very_ chilled vibrator he'd packed from home.

He'd brought it on a total whim (they _were_ going on a mini-break, after all, it wasn't like he was planning on the weekend being completely sexless), and he thanks whatever gods exist that he'd had the foresight to do so. He's fairly certain he's done for the night, but he knows once he gets Sherlock going, Sherlock can last far longer than the average man (yet another item to add to the never-ending list of egregiously unfair biological advantages Sherlock appeared to be blessed with). Sticking it in the ice bucket, well, that was just a bit pervy, but hell, when inspiration struck, who was John to question it?

The vibrator is achingly cold has he coats it with lube. He has no idea whether Sherlock will even find this pleasurable (the idea titillates him for some reason he can't quite place, but he'll dissect that later), but he can't see any harm in it so long as there's adequate lubrication. From where he's standing at the side of the bed, he reaches down and gently prods Sherlock's thighs apart with his forearm. Sherlock pulls his thighs back to his chest accommodatingly, opening himself for John despite having no knowledge of what John has in store for him. The level of trust takes John's breath away.

But there's no time to dawdle. Without another moment of hesitation, he presses the ice-cold vibrator inside, and flicks it on. Before Sherlock can react, John grabs another ice cube with his left hand and presses it to one of Sherlock's inflamed nipples.

He expects Sherlock to scream, or wail, or gasp, but what he doesn't expect is for Sherlock to go completely, utterly silent. His mouth is opening and closing like a fish out of water and his lungs are making aborted little heaves like he's had the wind knocked out of him. But aside from that, he's quiet.

Slowly, John begins to move the vibrator in gradual, gentle thrusts. Sherlock's cock begins to twitch and harden. With his other hand, John trails the ice cube over to Sherlock's other nipple, its red swollen tip causing John to flinch in sympathy as he presses the cube over it.

"Oh. Oh." Sherlock's head is tipped back and he's clenching his hands into tight fists, still not moving them from their place on the pillow. He's murmuring under his breath as though in complete and total awe. 

John turns the setting of the vibrator up a notch.

_"Oh."_ A light sob. John returns the ice cube to the original nipple, and Sherlock presses his chest forward into the sensation and lets his legs splay open wider, the chilled vibrator sinking more deeply inside. "Oh."

He knows that overstimulation is one of Sherlock's biggest kinks, and having the privilege of pushing him like this fills John with a rush that's unlike anything else.

John feels like he's a passenger in his own body. He can't do anything but watch as Sherlock falls apart in front of him. He's shivering, his chest rising and falling at an unsteady pace as John works him over with a deliberate diligence. As the last of the ice cube melts away, John pinches the bereft nipple with his nails, and Sherlock's cock rises dutifully to full mast.

John replaces the ice cube with a fresh one and resumes his ministrations on Sherlock's nipples before switching the vibrator up to high and the pressing it, hard, onto Sherlock's prostate.

Sherlock's come twice already in a relatively short amount of time and he's clearly overstimulated, but the vibrator is always his Achilles' Heel. His cock emits a string of precome as John adjust the angle of the vibrator for more consistent stimulation, and Sherlock arches and bears down as if helpless to resist.

"That's it, love. Are you going to come for me?"

"Nnnnnngh. Yes, John. John." The last word is more sob than noun, and it tears through John straight down to his core.

"Alright, sweetheart. Go ahead now. Let me take you there. Lean into it. Let go."

Sherlock gasps and sobs. 

"Come on now, beautiful. Let go."

Sherlock's muscles coil and tense. 

"Let go."

Sherlock moans and his body pulls tight like a bowstring. 

"Let. Go."

And with one final, brutal press against his prostate, Sherlock goes off.

As orgasms go, this one is strange. Sherlock emits a series of sharp, short cries during the initial crest and then falls silent, but his cock continues to twitch and spurt long after he's ceased vocalization. John's not entirely sure when he's done, so he keeps pressing the vibrator firmly into his prostate, stopping only when Sherlock's cock begins to go soft, still lazily drooling come onto his quivering stomach.

He withdraws the vibrator as gently as he can, then quickly leans over to inspect his rim for tearing. Finding none, he presses Sherlock's legs back together and extends them to lie straight on the bed. Then he reaches up and takes Sherlock's hands in his.

"You can move your hands now, sweetheart. It's alright, you're all done." He moves Sherlock's arms to rest by his sides. 

Then slowly, reverently, he removes the blindfold.

Sherlock's eyes blink open, peering at him through wet lashes. His pupils dilate and then adjust to the light, but his gaze seems hazy and disorientated.

"Hi, there. Are you with me, love?"

Sherlock stares back at him and blinks a few times.

"Okay, sweetheart. Take a minute if you need to. I'm going to get a flannel and get you cleaned up. I won't be more than a few feet away."

Sherlock doesn't respond.

John soaks a flannel with warm water in the bathroom sink and returns quickly to Sherlock's side. He's just about to swipe it across his come-streaked abdomen when Sherlock speaks.

"Wait." John freezes.

"You back with me, sweetheart?"

"Yes, John."

"You want to stay like this for a little while?"

"Yes, please, John."

John turns and places the flannel on the nightstand and leans down to kiss Sherlock's lips. This is something Sherlock enjoys that John doesn't quite understand; he sometimes likes being left debauched and filthy for a while after they've finished. He doesn't want it every time, but John's been getting better at anticipating when he'll want it, and accepting that he doesn't need to know why.

"Okay, love. Is it okay if I stay in the room? I can leave if you really want me to, but seeing as how we're not at home, I'd prefer not to leave you alone."

"You can stay."

"Okay. I'm just going to be right over here in the chair by the window if you need me, alright?"

"Yes, John."

John goes through the motions of picking up a book and settling into the comfy armchair by the window overlooking the sea. He's not tired, and he's certainly not in the mood for reading, but this is what Sherlock needs right now, and he's determined to give it to him. He opens the book and diligently lowers his gaze and pretends to read.

It's the better part of an hour before he hears Sherlock begin to stir.

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"You can come back now. I'm done."

"Alright." John smiles warmly to himself as he closes his book and returns to the side of the bed.

Sherlock is fairly thoroughly wrecked, and John realises his plans to clean him with just a flannel were a bit ambitious.

"Sweetheart, if it's alright with you, I'd like to get you cleaned up in the shower. I think that'll be the best way to do this."

Sherlock sighs but nods. He doesn't normally need aftercare, but he seems willing enough to indulge John considering the circumstances. After all, they haven't just wrapped a case--it's not like he needs to collapse into his 14 hours of post-case sleep like he usually does after a session.

John helps an unsteady Sherlock to his feet and guides him gently to the shower. Sherlock hisses as the hot water hits his overworked nipples, and John quickly turns him so that his back is to the spray. John reverently washes off every inch of his precious porcelain skin, taking care not to overstimulate the parts of him that are sore, rinsing only briefly between his cheeks (and chastising his filthy beast of a brain for delighting in the slick slide of his fingers through the residue there). He helps Sherlock into a sitting position and washes his hair with palpable fondness as Sherlock moans contentedly at his feet. 

Finally, John shuts off the taps and towels them both off. He wraps Sherlock in a fluffy hotel robe before doing the same for himself, then leads Sherlock back to the bedroom. He throws the duvet back onto the bed (the sheets were past ruin), and guides Sherlock up to lie next to him, curling into his arms.

John presses a kiss to the wet curls at the back of his neck.

"How are you feeling, love?"

"Good, John. So, so good."

"Mmmm. I'm glad." He squeezes him just a little closer. "Sleep now?"

"Yes, John."

The next morning is slow and hazy. They wake slowly side by side, limbs tangled up in one another, and John secretly delights in the way Sherlock's cheeks flush as he stretches out and takes inventory of each bruise and ache. He's always a little shy the morning after they unwind if it hasn't been after a case, and John feels the familiar surge of protectiveness course through him as he pulls Sherlock close to pepper his face with kisses. Sherlock giggles and rolls to tuck his face back into the pillow and mutters, _"Hungry"_ with a vehement kind of glee, and John rises reluctantly to run out to the bakery.

By the time he returns, Sherlock is dressed and hunched over his phone, firing off texts.

"Croissants, your majesty."

"Mmm." Sherlock plucks one from the bag without looking up and bites off what must be nearly half of it.

Back to normal, then. John smiles to himself.

The train ride to London is uneventful. Sherlock is completely engrossed in his phone, and John takes advantage of the opportunity to observe him.

He's gorgeous this morning. He always is, but here on the train in the early sunlight, he's bloody _ethereal._ His eyes are bright and focused, his long fingers skimming the keypad with effortless grace. His brow is creased and serious as he loses himself in thought. He's stoic and composed and so utterly _untouchable._

But then John notes that Sherlock's left an extra button undone at the collar of his shirt. It's glaringly obvious, and he's not quite sure how he missed it before; it was surely intentional on Sherlock's part. It's just enough to reveal the series of dark purple bite marks across his collarbone, evidence of their activities the previous night. The chain of John's dog tags is discretely visible, glinting in the morning sun.

Untouchable, but _claimed._

A rush of warm affection spreads through John so strong that it takes all his willpower to not break the moment entirely by standing up and unceremoniously straddling Sherlock's lap.

But... they're not just _that._ They're _this,_ too, quiet moments spent in unspoken companionship, an ease of togetherness that John has never shared with anyone before. They're perfect. 

Sherlock's eyes flick up to meet John's.

"What?" He sounds haughty, but John knows better.

John grins.

Sherlock grins back.

John licks his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Until next time!
> 
> Okay, confession time... I love getting comments. Really love it. Thank you all for your lovely words of encouragement and your suggestions and your feedback! Please know it is very deeply appreciated.


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